


Still A Skeptic

by moderatelybowling



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Falling In Love, First Kiss, M/M, Pining, alternate universe- fbi agents, just makes MORE sense if you have, makes sense even if you havent seen the xfiles, x-files au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:52:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6517582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moderatelybowling/pseuds/moderatelybowling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which illya and napoleon are<br/>1. the most disgraced agents in the entire fbi<br/>2. the most mutually protective agents in the entire fbi<br/>3. the most sickeningly in love agents in the entire fbi</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still A Skeptic

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Всё ещё скептик](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8288545) by [Slavyanka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slavyanka/pseuds/Slavyanka)



Napoleon sighs as he climbs out of the car, struggling to open his umbrella before he gets soaked by the rain pouring down. He hears Illya climbing out of the driver’s side, and before long he feels him looming behind him, watching him try to get the umbrella open. Napoleon finally gets it open, Illya crowding up next to him and hunching down to fit underneath. 

Napoleon tries to ignore the warmth that’s radiating off of him, making himself want to wrap himself up in Illya and never let go. He’s been having to ignore a lot of urges like that lately, in the months that he’s been working with Illya. He hates to admit it to himself, but he’s gotten a little _too_ attached to his fellow agent. Attachment is a dangerous thing in their profession, with friends and partners too often being ripped apart by transfers, injuries, and worse. Not to mention the fact that the FBI does not look too favorably upon fraternization, especially between their male agents. 

At the beginning of their partnership, fraternization had been the last thing on Napoleon’s mind. He had looked upon Illya with distaste, seen him as the man that the rumors made him out to be- a conspiracy theorist with more brawn than brains, nothing but a reject of an agent. He had seen his reassignment to the x-files for what it was: a banishment, punishment for asking too many questions, for “stealing” intelligence from the bureau. 

However, despite his initial feelings, Napoleon has found himself genuinely enjoying working with Illya in the year that they’ve been partners. He’s grown to admire his conviction to his cause, to the way that despite the whispers and glares in the halls he continues to search for the truth. It’s honestly amazing, the way that Illya has stayed true to himself through _years_ of ridicule, years of people demanding proof of his citizenship, hurling slurs and insults at him, whispering about his lack of loyalty, his lack of trustworthiness. Napoleon doubts that he could have made it through the things that Illya has.

More worrying than the admiration, however, is the fact that Napoleon has become helplessly _fond_ of Illya. Napoleon can’t ignore the surges of affection that he feels at the sight of him doing even the smallest things, like stroking his watch absentmindedly or wrinkling his nose at a particularly bad cup of coffee. He finds himself wanting to brush the hair out of Illya’s hair when it’s rumpled after he’s spent all night at the office, wanting to smooth down his collar and fix his tie when it’s crooked. Napoleon finds these feelings, to say the least, fucking terrifying.

He’s pulled out his thoughts when Illya starts talking, his voice low and intimate under the umbrella, everything else being blocked out by the roar of the rain.

“There have been 3 reports of people disappearing in this field over last month, without trace. There are files going back 40 years that document same thing happening every 8 years. Like clockwork.”

Napoleon blinks at that, surprised. “And no one has ever thought to investigate this before? That’s over a dozen people, Peril!” Illya shrugs, glancing down at Napoleon as they walk.

“Eight years is a long time. This is a small town. No one wants to think that there might be an actual problem.” Napoleon sighs again at that as Illya continues. “Will be two dozen, if we don’t figure this out in time. The disappearances always come in fours.”

Napoleon glances up at him at that, noticing the determination set onto Illya’s face. Napoleon knows the effect that these kinds of cases have on Illya, knows that they make him think of his father. His father, who was killed when Illya was a child. He had been the only one who had seen it happen, and his story differers quite a bit from what they published in the papers.

According the official police reports, Illya’s father had been killed in a mob hit. According to Illya himself, his father had disappeared in a flash of light, his screams obscured by the mechanical whirring of a ship. Napoleon’s still not quite sure which story he believes, if Illya’s story is just the defense mechanism of a scared little boy.

Either way, Napoleon knows that Illya is not going to let that fourth victim be taken, and he’s not going to either.

///

For once, their investigation goes off without a hitch. They save the would-be victim, a teenage boy whose aunt had disappeared eight years before, apparently carried off by something half-beast and half-man. Illya and Napoleon never manage to catch the creature, but they save the life of an innocent boy, and that’s what really matters.

Napoleon’s report, as usual, stresses the fact that he’s still not quite sure about _what_ he’s seen, only that he’s seen _something_. Waverly nods as he reads it, giving Napoleon a knowing look and dismissing him without a word. Napoleon is glad that he and Illya have at least managed to get Waverly’s approval, a man who was once even more skeptical of the x-files division than Napoleon himself. Waverly’s still not exactly a believer, but it always helps to have the Assistant Director on your side.

After his meeting, Napoleon makes his way down to the basement, entering his and Illya’s office to see Gaby perched on his desk, bickering with Illya. Illya is bent over a file, occasionally looking up to glare at Gaby and respond. They both turn their glares on Napoleon when he walks in. He sighs, knowing that he’s about to get pulled into their argument. 

“Napoleon! Would you _please_ explain to Illya that he would get his work done quicker if he just _cleaned up his desk?_ ” Napoleon tries not to roll his eyes. Gaby and Illya have this argument at least once a month. Gaby is one of only other agents in the bureau that actually _associates_ with them, let alone agrees with their work, but that doesn’t mean that she agrees with the state of their office. Napoleon has never had much of an issue with the slight clutter of the place, and finds that it makes the place seem rather comfortable. Gaby, on the other hand, _hates_ it. Before he can say anything, however, Illya speaks up, pointing accusingly at Napoleon.

“Say nothing. My desk is fine. It is _Gaby_ who has obsession with organization.” That earns a scandalized cry from Gaby, and before Napoleon can even think about deescalating the situation they’re back at it again, Gaby flinging her hands around as she talks and Illya glaring and growling. Napoleon does roll his eyes now, sitting down at his desk with a sigh as he tries to focus on his work over their arguing. He’s not worried about the situation, as all three of their relationships with each other are pretty much based on bickering. He supposes that it’s how they show affection, getting into meaningless arguments one minute and then saving each others’ lives the next. 

Now that he’s thinking of it, he realizes that he and Illya have actually been arguing less and less lately. At the beginning of their partnership they had been at each other’s throats _constantly_ , and even when they had grown to be friends they had still kept trying to one up each other and thrown friendly insults each other’s way. Now, however, their arguments are few and far between, and their playful insults have been mostly replaced by warm smiles and casual touches.

Napoleon has no idea what to make of it, so he pushes it out of his mind, trying his best to focus on his work. He’s got a job to do, and he can’t be wasting any time thinking about the soft look that Illya gets in his eyes when he looks at Napoleon, or how nice it feels when Illya claps a huge hand on his shoulder after a job well done.

He definitely, for _sure_ , does _not_ waste his time thinking about these things. For sure. 

 ///

Illya and Napoleon are in Waverly’s office together, and Napoleon can’t stop listening to Illya’s voice. They’re getting chewed out for something or other, but that’s a pretty normal occurrence for them. Waverly might be sympathetic for their situation, but thatdoesn’t change the fact that they’re two disgraced FBI agent, the poster boys for what happens when you ask one too many questions. They only reason that they’ve even been allowed to stick around for so long is because their particular skill sets are far too valuable for the FBI to lose. It’s the same old thing this time around, Waverly yelling about the needless risks they take, the protocol that they trample over daily. It’s nothing out of the ordinary.

What _is_ out of the ordinary, however, is Illya’s voice when he responds to Waverly’s questions. His accent is softer, less evident than usual, the normal harsh sound of his vowels smoothed into something far less noticeable. His English is also _perfect_. Napoleon hasn’t heard him drop a single article throughout this entire meeting.  

“Agent Solo, are you even _listening_?”

Napoleon’s gaze jerks away from Illya, back to Waverly, quickly making his excuses and apologizing. He can feel Illya looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and he stares resolutely ahead as Waverly finishes his spiel and dismisses them. By the time they’re back in the office, Illya’s voice is completely back to his normal, harsh rumble. 

After that meeting, Napoleon notices more and more the way Illya speaks. He comes to the conclusion that it’s not _other_ people that Illya speaks differently around- it’s _him_. Around nearly everyone else that they talk to, whether it be Waverly, another agent, or even a civilian, Illya’s English is clean and crisp, his accent less noticeable. Even around Gaby, he tends not to drop as many articles or pronounce words quite as harshly. It’s only when Illya is alone with Napoleon, whether it be in their office, the car, or at their occasional dinner out, that his guard drops and his accent becomes stronger.

Napoleon knows that Illya probably has no idea that he’s doing it, has no idea of this sign of trust that he shows so willingly to Napoleon.

For some reason, that makes Napoleon’s chest ache in a way that he’s never felt before.

 /// 

The first time that Illya hears another agent call Napoleon nothing more than a pretty face, he punches them so hard that they lose a tooth.

Napoleon has to spend nearly a week on the paperwork from that little incident, but he can’t help smiling every time he sees Illya’s bruised knuckles.

///

Illya is off researching something for their current case, and Napoleon is left alone in their office for the first time in a long while. If they’re not away on a case, Illya is pretty much a permanent fixture of the office. Along with being the FBI’s most disgraced agent, Napoleon thinks that Illya might also be the most hardworking agent in the bureau. 

Despite Gaby’s nagging, it actual does make sense that their office is so cluttered, as Illya practically lives here, only going home to eat and shower and occasionally sleep. Illya has inhabited the office for years, and it shows. The shelves are full of the books onconspiracies and quantum mechanics that he has collected over the years, and the walls are covered in his posters. The cork board behind his desk is absolutely covered in papers.

Napoleon has never actually been able to examine the board in detail, and he finds himself wandering over to look. It seems like it’s mostly covered in photos of supposed ufo sightings and scrawled notes about their various cases, most of them in Russian. 

He’s about to turn away when one of the photographs catches his eye. It’s tucked self-consciously into the corner of board, obviously put in a place to draw the least amount of attention possible. He leans in closer, realizing that it’s a photograph of _him._ More specifically, him and Illya. He supposes that Gaby must have taken it at some point without either of them knowing, and somehow Illya had gotten ahold of it.

Illya is reading a file in the photo, leaning in towards Napoleon so that he can see the paper. Napoleon is leaning towards him, too, but he’s not looking at the file. He’s looking up at Illya, with an expression on his face that Napoleon is honestly embarrassed to look at. He looks absolutely _adoring_ , his features soft and a tiny smile on his lips. 

The only thing that saves Napoleon’s pride is the state of the photograph. It’s edges are slightly torn, as if someone had carried it in their pocket for a few days too long. Napoleon can’t help grinning at that, realizing that maybe his affection isn’t so one-sided.

He hears the door open behind him, and turns to see Illya raising an eyebrow at him as he walks into the office, holding two coffees. Napoleon makes his way back out from behind Illya’s desk, still grinning as he takes one of the coffees from Illya. 

“What are you smiling at, Cowboy? Is not great coffee, don’t be too happy.” 

Napoleon doesn’t look at him while he answers, making his way over to his own desk.

“Nothing, I was just looking at your board. That’s a nice photo of us, Peril.” He smirks again when he hears Illya choke slightly on his coffee, looking up to see him blushing bright red and staring at Napoleon with wide eyes. 

“I- Gaby took it, I... Gaby. She took it. Gave it to me.” Illya stutters as he tries to explain himself, and Napoleon has to hold back a laugh.

“Quit worrying, Peril. I mean it. It’s a nice photo. I’m glad Gaby took it.” Illya’s still blushing, and Napoleon decides to take mercy on him. “Did you find anything at the library?”

They spend the rest of the day working on their case, and Napoleon doesn’t bring up the photo again. He also doesn’t bring up the fact that Illya continues to blush every time Napoleon keeps eye contact for just a bit too long.

///

They split up during an investigation, Illya going off to check up on the victim’s mother while Napoleon searches the actual scene of the crime for anything they missed on their first sweep. Apparently they _did_ miss something, and apparently that thing was the lair of whatever it is that they’re chasing, because the next thing he knows Napoleon’s head _really hurts_ and he’s waking up in a hospital bed.

The first thing he does is check that he’s not actively dying. He concludes that he’s not.

The second thing he does is check the time. It’s 6:32.

At exactly 7:12, he hears someone a few rooms away yell “WHERE IS HE”. Napoleon can’t help grinning.

At 7:13, Illya bursts in the room, yelling “COWBOY” as he runs towards Napoleon. Napoleon doesn’t miss the aborted twitch of Illya’s hand towards his own. He also doesn’t miss the much more familiar twitching that follows it.

“Hey there, Peril,” he says, offering him a easy smile. Illya looks like he’s about to wreck yet _another_ hospital room, and Napoleon would really rather avoid that if he can.  

Illya does not smile back, just growls “ _Where are you hurt._ Would not tell me. Said I am not _family_. _”_ He snarls the last word, staring at Napoleon in a way that has him squirming from the intensity.

“Just my head, I should be out of here tonight.” He sees Illya visibly deflate at that, his hands stilling at his sides. He sinks into the chair by Napoleon’s bed, finally calmed down. 

Napoleon honestly admires the fact that Illya still manages to get this worked up, considering the fact that he spends about half of his time storming into hospitals and demanding to see Napoleon. He remembers waking up after a particularly bad injury to Illya holding his hand and looking suspiciously red-eyed. They didn’t talk about it the next day. They _never_ really address their protectiveness over each other, the way that Illya wrecks hospital rooms and Napoleon decks doctors. They have an unspoken agreement that they deal with the paperwork together, but that’s about it.

Sometimes, while Illya lays ashen-faced in hospital beds, Napoleon wishes that they _did_ talk about it.

///

Napoleon doesn’t mean to fall asleep, he really doesn’t. It’s around 2am, and he and Illya have been in the office since 6am, trying to put together the facts of their latest case into something that actually makes _sense_. He knows that they needs to finish the case, but he is _so tired_. 

Gaby had come in around eight to bring them coffee, but it was long gone and the kitchens upstairs had been closed up hours ago. Napoleon genuinely thinks he might be going insane, the numbers and letters on the page in front of him blurring together into something completely incomprehensible. He blinks at the page, and before he knows it Illya is standing above him, muttering “Cowboy” and shaking his shoulder. Napoleon groans, not even managing to lift his head from where it’s fallen onto his desk. Keeping his eyes closed just feels _so good._  

Illya sighs, grumbling something in Russian that Napoleon’s too tired to even attempt to translate. Before he even knows what’s happening, Illya has bent to scoop Napoleon into his arms, bridal-style. Napoleon doesn’t even have the energy to protest, let alone ask him what he’s doing.

Illya carries him over to the couch that they have shoved into the corner of the office, acquired after Gaby had realized just how many night Illya spends at the office, and places Napoleon down on it carefully. He walks away for a moment, and by the time he returns with his jacket to throw over Napoleon, he’s already half asleep again.

When Napoleon feels the jacket settle over him he manages to crack an eye open, mumbling something about how they have to finish the case.

“I am almost done. You need to sleep, now,” Illya says, tucking the jacket more securely over Napoleon’s shoulders. Napoleon knows that he should get up and help, but Illya’s jacket is heavy and warm and it smells like him, and Napoleon is so, so tired. He’s more asleep than awake when he feels Illya’s hand on his hair, smoothing it away from his forehead.

Before he can say anything about it, he’s asleep.

 ///

A few weeks later, Illya quotes his fucking _thesis_ at him, quotes _verbatim_ a paper that he wrote as a bright-eyed, optimistic, idiot of a kid. 

Illya says his own words back to him in that _voice_ and he _smiles_ at him and says “You were much more openminded as youngster” and Napoleon can’t help laughing. He laughs until he cries about the fact that this _giant_ of a man, this man who hides his heart behind his fists and glares, this man _memorized_ parts of his _thesis_. Illya smiles even bigger at Napoleon’s laugh, looks _delighted_ at Napoleon’s outburst. Napoleon looks up at him with tears in his eyes, and Illya looks so damn _happy_ and Napoleon very nearly kisses him. He wants to, wants it more then he’s ever wanted _anything_ , but they’re in the middle of the street and they’re _federal fucking agents._ So for once in his life, Napoleon controls his impulse.

He doesn’t kiss Illya, but _christ_ does he want to.

/// 

Months later, Napoleon meets Illya back at their motel after checking out a crime scene, empty handed of any new evidence. When he tells Illya this, he scoffs.

“There has to be something. Did you even know what to look for?” Napoleon glares at him, because he’s been assigned to the x-files for nearly _two years_ now, and he knows what he’s doing.

“Oh, _I_ don’t know, Peril, _did I_? I checked for evidence of conjuring, the black arts, shamanism, and divination. _Then_ I checked for any pagan, neo-pagan, or wiccan symbols. I checked for signs of any charms, cards, familiars, bloodstones, hexes, and alters, as well as any _other_ symbols associated with the occult. There was no ectoplasm, issues with the magnetic field, or any other signs of anything supernatural at work. So _please_ tell me, Peril, did I fucking _know what I was looking for_?”

Illya’s staring at him with wide eyes, by the end of his rant, color high in his cheeks. Napoleon’s glare softens when he sees his expression, but the color in Illya’s cheeks only deepens. 

“Peril, are you alright?”

“D-da- I mean, uh, yes. I am fine. I- we. We should check local records. Since there is nothing. At the crime scene.” He still looks a little shellshocked. Napoleon tries not to feel too satisfied with himself.

Illya keeps staring at him all day when he thinks Napoleon isn’t looking. For a special agent, he’s not very good at being subtle.

///

Illya gets fucking _kidnapped_ , taken by some nutjob with an insane healing ability and a penchant for knifes, and Napoleon has no idea what to do. Napoleon himself has been taken an insane amount of times, but never Illya. Napoleon finally understands why Illya always shows up to rescue him with circles under his eyes and shaking hands, looking like he thought he’d never see Napoleon again.

Napoleon searches for Illya for _days_ , searches the entire city for him, checking and rechecking every piece of evidence that he has for clues. He doesn’t sleep, and he barely eats. He doesn’t think that he’s ever yelled at more agents, officers, and city officials than he does while he looks for Illya.

He finally finds him in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, tied to a chair and spitting blood into the face of his captor. He’s been in the warehouse for _three fucking days_ , and he’s still snarling and spitting.

Napoleon’s in a haze as he sneaks up and knocks Illya’s kidnapper unconscious, cuffing him without even realizing what he’s doing. All he can do is look at Illya. He’s an absolute mess, sporting a black eye, a split lip, and covered with cuts and bruises, but he’s smiling at Napoleon, his grin completely open.

That smile is the most beautiful thing that Napoleon has ever seen in his life.

As Napoleon kneels down to cut him lose, Illya spits some more blood onto the floor before speaking, his voice hoarse but happy. 

“Knew you would come. Knew you would find me.” As soon as his hands are free he grabs at Napoleon, tugging him up into his lap to wrap his arms around him. 

Napoleon knows that he should pull away.

He hugs Illya back instead. 

He doesn’t know which one of them pulls back, but either way neither of them pull back very far. Napoleon’s straddling Illya on the chair, staring down at him and Illya looks back up at him, his arms still around him. His lip is still bleeding, and Napoleon reaches up to wipe away the blood with his thumb, never breaking eye contact. He sees Illya’s eyes flicker down to look at Napoleon’s mouth.

Before he knows what’s happening, Illya has moved one of his hands to fist in Napoleon’s shirt, tugging him down and crushing their mouths together. Napoleon gasps in surprise, closing his eyes when Illya takes the opportunity to lick into his mouth.

By the time Illya pulls back, Napoleon’s panting, his mouth tasting like copper. He rests his forehead against against Illya’s, opening his eyes to see Illya smiling again, his eyes still shut. 

“I’ll always find you” Napoleon murmurs, pressing a kiss against Illya’s forehead.

Illya finally opens his eyes, looking at Napoleon. “I know you will” he says as he presses a soft kiss against Napoleon’s jaw. He leans back again after to look at Napoleon. “I love you.” He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it’s obvious.

Napoleon grins at him. “I love you too, Peril” he says, his voice shaking with a breathless laugh. Illya grins back, tugging Napoleon back into a hug.

The backup agents and paramedics that Napoleon had radioed for earlier find them like that, two exhausted and bloody FBI agents wrapped up around each other. Neither of them give a damn, holding hands as they make their way out of the warehouse to the waiting ambulance.

///

That night, Napoleon finally gets to actually sleep for the first time in three days. He sleeps curled up around Illya in his hospital bed, their hands tangled together. The bed is entirely two small for the two of them, but neither of them care.

It’s the best sleep that either of them can remember getting in a very, very long time. 

In the morning, while they’re still curled around each other, Illya leans down to press a kiss against the top of Napoleon’s head. Napoleon sighs happily, tucking himself more soundly against Illya’s chest. 

“Don’t think that this means I believe in aliens, now” he mumbles sleepily, arching into Illya’s touch when he feels his fingers start to card through his hair.

Illya hums happily in response, and they fall back asleep like that, warm and happy in each other’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> tfw you want napoleon holding the umbrella and illya doing the "SCULLAAAAY" thing so you write 4k of it lm ao
> 
> title is from Aliens Exist by blink-182
> 
> thanks for reading!!! <3


End file.
